Page 68 of Eternal Obsession

I had hit a nerve with my rudeness. I sensed she was not used to men speaking with such disrespect. Interesting, not that I cared though. “Well it’s been nice meeting with you, but I have to go now, Ingrid.” I strolled off, heading into the other room where more paintings awaited.

I was relieved to have extracted myself from the intriguing woman.

There was no room in my life for indulges with dazzling mortals.

On the other hand, perhaps my fascination with her had thrown me. Abruptly, I stopped. A dramatic portrait had caught my eye—Rembrandt’s Belshazzar’s Feast. I swallowed hard and looked around the room self-consciously. Orpheus once mentioned he owned the masterpiece.

It astounded me to see it here.

The portrait was of a chilling scene of a regale in the kingdom of Babylon, a striking rendition on an old biblical narrative. Several guests sat around a richly adorned banqueting table and drank from the sacred vessels stolen from the temple of Jerusalem. These princes, wives, and concubines of King Belshazzar appeared deeply troubled, startled by the sudden interruption of a blinding vision. At the center of the painting stood Belshazzar, equally alarmed by the mystical apparition.

Large in the frame, he was dressed in the lavish apparel of a king, his royal crown positioned high upon a generous turban. Defensively he held out his hand and glared wide-eyed in astonishment at the miraculous light that emanated from the hand of God who wrote upon the wall in Aramaic script.

Fascinated, I considered the gallery’s interpretation of the painting. Belshazzar and his sages had studied the words written from right to left, perturbed that they were unable to interpret their coded meaning. The prophet Daniel was summoned by the King and deciphered the words for him—Mene Mene Tekel Upharsin—foretelling the fall of the kingdom of Babylon and the death of Belshazzar.

I mouthed the words, “Mene Mene Tekel Upharsin.” I shuddered in reaction to the precise Aramaic: I will bring down the house of Belshazzar.

I lingered before the painting and wondered yet again why after all these years Catherine had not approached me. She knew where we lived. She could easily have visited if only for a moment. She must have known I had pursued her relentlessly. Did Daumia still keep her prisoner?

I was lost in thought.

“Excuse me?” That pretty woman again. She had followed me.

Reluctant to engage I offered a polite smile and headed for the next room.

“How did you know my name? You called me Ingrid, and I never told you my name.”

She was right. I chastised my carelessness. I studied her face, gauging my response. The twinkle of gold caught my eye.

Thank God for that.

“Ingrid, see.” I pointed to her namesake necklace.

Ingrid blushed. “Boy, do I feel⁠—”

“It’s a beautiful name,” I said.

“May I inquire on yours?”

“Jadeon.”

“That’s unusual.” Ingrid followed my gaze toward a gentleman who was walking toward us.

I recognized Mr. Teddington.

“Lord Artimas,” Mr. Teddington greeted me. “I was informed you were here tonight. How do you like the position of your painting?”

“Good evening, sir. Thank you for giving her such an excellent position.”

“It is indeed our pleasure. Such a masterpiece deserves to be presented as such. Thank you for allowing the National Gallery to exhibit her.”

Ingrid pulled out of her handbag a postcard and turned it around. “You own this painting?”

“Yes.” I tried to figure out why she seemed overly fascinated with this fact. She appeared lost in thought.

“Ingrid, meet Mr. Teddington,” I said. “He’s the senior curator. Mr. Teddington, this is Ingrid.”

Mr. Teddington and Ingrid shook hands.